Sweet Caroline(38)

“Yes, that shoebox thing.” Grabbing onto a support beam, I work my way over.

The dull-finished pine box is not heavy, but when I shake it, some-thing moves from side to side. There’s a lock on the front, and I think I know where to find the key.

Back in my office, I set the box by the file cabinet by the printer for the time being while Buster writes up his job estimate.

“We’ll do the best we can not to disturb your business.”

I flick my hand at him. “It’s already disturbed.”

He scribbles his signature, then places the paper in front of me, slap-ping his hand over the final number. “It’s a big job, Caroline. I cut corners where I could, but I figured you’d want the best materials. We’re going to have to go under the house, and these walls—” He points with his pen.

“They’re plaster, half-inch thick, and the dickens to flush wire through.”

“Okay, good to know.” I pry up his pinky finger. “How much?”

He removes his hand, and I gasp. Holy bad wiring, Batman. “Buster, there’s a twenty-five and three zeros on this line.”

“I cut every corner I could. Did a job similar to this last year. Forty grand.”

Twenty-five thousand dollars? That’s more than my entire annual income last year. Where am I going to get twenty-five thousand dollars? I don’t like this. Not one bit.

My clothes and hands smell like attic dust and grease when, in fact, every pore of me should smell like coconut oil as I tan myself by the Mediterranean.

The wind whips my hair around my face as I speed down Highway 21 toward Dad’s fishing hole on the Coosaw. My foot leans on the gas. Twenty-five thousand.

I swing into the landing where Dad always puts in and park next to his truck. I can see him out there, floating in his favorite spot. Reaching inside the cab, I pound the horn a few times.

Dad looks up. A second later, I hear the boat’s engine fire up and grind toward shore.

“Are they biting?” I call.

“Not one.” He inches the boat alongside the dock. “What brings you out here? Everything okay?”

“No, everything is not okay. Dad, I need money.” No use beating around the bush.

He hops out of the boat. “You need money, or the Café?”

“Is there a difference?”

He chuckles. “Always did love your humor in bad situations. Re-member the year I told you and Henry there wouldn’t be any Christmas presents?”

I rake my tangled hair away from my face. “Dad—”

“You said, ‘I knew that fat Santa spent our Christmas money on McDonald’s.’” He throws back his head and laughs freely.

Normally, I’m game for a skip down memory lane, but my thoughts are locked in the desperation of the here and now. “Dad, I need twenty-five thousand dollars.”

He stops laughing. “What for?”

“Rewiring. It’s pretty serious. It’s amazing the Café hasn’t burnt down.”

Dad carries his tackle box over to the truck bed. “I’d love to help you, Caroline, but I spent all the cash I had on the wedding trip to the Bahamas. We lived pretty high on the hog, decided to enjoy ourselves. The rest, which was shabby, Posey and I sunk into an invested account. I suppose I could—”

“No, Dad, no. You’re not emptying your accounts.” I tuck my hands in my skirt pockets.

Dad props his elbow on the rim of the truck bed. “Guess you could go to Henry and Cherry.”

“No way. The last time I borrowed money from Henry, the payback pressure kept me awake at night. One night I ordered pizza just as he came through the door and he drilled me about how much it cost, giving me a lecture on ‘this is why you never have any money.’ And all he spotted me was a hundred dollars. I can’t imagine what twenty-five grand would do to him. Or me.”

I stare out over the water. My thoughts bob along the waves of my emotions, refusing to go deep and hook reality—what am I going to do if I can’t come up with the money?

“Caroline, I’m sorry. Guess I’m not much of a dad in times like these.”

I focus on him. “Dad, this is my life, my problem. Don’t feel the burden of it. It’s enough you’re here to listen.”

He clears his throat and looks away. “Coming to dinner? Henry’s working late, so it’s just us and Cherry.”

I jerk open the Mustang door with a glance at my watch. Five fif-teen. “I’ll try.”

“What about Mitch?”

“What about him?”

“Money.”

I answer with a vigorous shake of my head. “I’ll figure this out. See you in a bit.”

To: Hazel Palmer

From: CSweeney

Subject: Re: The Frogmore and me

Hazel,

Did you fall off the face of the earth? Fall in love with Fernando and elope? Get fired by Carlos because your hometown friend is a flake? Café update: Almost burned down. Horrendous wiring problems. Called Buster and got him to bubblegum us together until he can fix everything proper. Guess what the tab totaled up to be?

$25,000.

Yeah, you read it right. If I’d been standing when I read the quote, I’d have keeled over.

Did I ever tell you J. D. Rand and I are dating? As of a few days ago. He was jealous of Mitch—long story—so we had a heart-to-heart and made it official.